


Joy to the World

by gallpall



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: A Cris-mas comedy of errors, A bit of smut but it's mostly sweet and silly, A really hamfisted National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation reference, Canaan-typical polyamory, Every single OG necro/cav has a cameo!, F/F, Fluff (minor angst!), Little epistolary tidbits-because I love the letters in canon, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:08:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27927274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallpall/pseuds/gallpall
Summary: “Yes, yes! Cris-mas. How merry. It is done. The first of the holidays in dedication to you disciples. Each of you will have one to your name. I expect preparations to commence immediately. Mercy, take the helm.”“How shall we prepare?” you asked with resignation, pen at the ready. You only had eight days.“How should I know? I’m only God.” For that you began to plan your retribution.-Or: Mercy assumes the monumental task of coordinating Cristabel's birthday with help from her fellow disciples. Will the reason for the season keep her sane? A seasonally-appropriate Canaan House comedy of errors.
Relationships: Mercymorn the First/Cristabel Oct
Comments: 12
Kudos: 26
Collections: The Locked Tomb Holiday Smut Festival 2020





	Joy to the World

**Author's Note:**

> This is meant to be somewhat lighthearted, and to take place well before the og-Lyctors knew what they were in for, under the (definitely incorrect) assumption that Canaan House was once upon a time a very happy and safe place for everybody.

??? YEARS BEFORE THE SAINT OF JOY’S ASCENSION

8 DAYS BEFORE THE BIRTHDAY OF CRISTABEL OCT

Your name was Mercymorn Oktaplasia, and your benevolent Resurrector had just turned your lovely dinner conversation into a business meeting again. You hoped his holy request would involve re-upholstering the furniture of Canaan House or establishing an outpost on some far-off planet. That would have been fine with you.

His ambitions were much more trivial and terrible than that.

“For all of your toils—” he began, but there was a piece of bread in his sacred stubble. Across from you Augustine wet his thumb, leaned over crookedly to touch God’s mouth, and wiped the crumb away. The two of them were wickedly drunk. In fairness, you were too.

“Right, Augustine, thanks. For all of your toils, for your service… you must forgive me. I have not done enough to recognize the individuality of my disciples. It is time to celebrate you.”

The delightful woman at your side objected in an instant.

“But Emperor, should we not celebrate _you?”_

God blinked once. You frowned in anticipation and touched your cavalier’s leg gently beneath the table.

“Cristabel, that is far from the point,” God said tiredly. “And with your birthday so imminent! Show some vanity, for goodness’ sake.”

You attempted to bail her out of this one. You often did that.

“My Lord, birthdays _have_ become tedium around here.” You clasped your hands atop the table and looked down through your lashes at God. “Perhaps we should cancel them all.”

Most of the table erupted in dissent, and God put his head in his hands. You smiled, pleased with the discord you had wrought. It so happened that your cavalier was _not_ pleased, and so you compensated:

“Alright, alright, screw your lids back on! I see your point, my Lord. Perhaps we can rename her birthday _Cris-mas_.”

The King Undying almost spat out his wine. You did not fully understand why he laughed hysterically into his cup. It took him at least thirty seconds to recover.

“Yes, yes! Cris-mas. How _merry_. It is done. The first of the holidays in dedication to you disciples. Each of you will have one to your name. I expect preparations to commence immediately. Mercy, take the helm.”

“How shall we prepare?” you asked with resignation, pen at the ready. You only had eight days.

“How should _I_ know? I’m only God.” For that you began to plan your retribution.

* * *

You presented an edict to all of Canaan that very night.

_Contributor_ | _Responsibility_  
---|---  
Cassiopeia & Nigella | CONFECTIONS  
Alfred* | LIBATIONS  
Anastasia & Samael | DOXOLOGY  
Cytherea & Loveday | BOUQUET  
Cyrus & Valancy | HOSIERY  
Ulysses | LUMINANCE  
Titania | FAUNA  
Gideon & Pyrrha | POTAGE  
_A.L. & E.J.G._ | _Exempt_  
  
_ *Aug. - I kindly ask that you  _ do not _ contribute at all!! _

* * *

7 DAYS BEFORE THE BIRTHDAY OF CRISTABEL OCT

You consulted Cassiopeia before anyone else, because you were afraid she would lose the recipe you’d requested in the squalor of her room.

You were also afraid she might lose her fingers _in_ the recipe.

She handed you a piece of flimsy, covered in flour and something sticky that you prayed was just frosting.

> **CRIS-MAS RESURRECTION BEASCUITS**
> 
> Acquire large ceramic bowl. Inside bowl combine one (1) cup of butter and one and a half (1 ½) cups of sugar until smooth like the MESORHOIC layer. (Do not question my metaphors, M. They are correct in all applications.)
> 
> Into mixture add one (1) egg and one (1) teaspoon of vanilla. Stir. Set aside.
> 
> Also set aside reserves about having sex while baking, because Nigella looks scrumptious today and I am not inclined to dismiss her wiles. Fire up the furnace while she fires up my libido. ~~Pour a glass of wine.~~ Ok Nigella says I should not pour a glass of wine yet.
> 
> In another (ceramic) bowl, between impassioned kisses, combine two and three-quarters (2 ¾) cups flour, one (1) teaspoon baking soda, and one-half (½) teaspoon baking powder. Flick flour onto Nigella’s face. Annoy her until she smiles.
> 
> Blend dry ingredients with wet ingredients until homogenous like the BATHYRHOIC layer. Roll dough into one (1) inch balls and place into furnace. Ensure furnace is set to _moderate_ , not to _cremate_ . (It _was_ set to cremate. Knit fingertips back on. Remind self to wear mitts next time. Switch off blaring fire alarm and dance in the sprinklers.)
> 
> Eat raw dough off Nigella’s fingers while she hassles me about foodborne illness. Convince her to put her fingers inside me anyway. Lay back on the countertop and let her work. Pour a glass of wine, because she says I can now.
> 
> Remove biscuits from oven. While they cool, pipe chocolate icing onto Nigella’s nipples and lick it off. Eventually remember to spread icing on the confections as well.
> 
> Affix tiny pretzels onto the iced biscuits to look like antlers. Apply two dots of white icing and a red candied nose to each biscuit.
> 
> _[Adept’s Note: RBs are not known to have antlers, eyes, or noses. These are festively embellished.]_
> 
> Realize I am very tipsy and many of the Resurrection Beascuits have come out topsy. Hope that no one notices. Store in an airtight container.
> 
> Eat Nigella out on the kitchen floor until the both of us pass out on the tile.
> 
> Serves eighteen.
> 
> Merry “Cris-mas" M!

You scowled at this un-replicable, unsanitary theorem and you handed it right back.

You had always found the Sixth’s methods rather improper for a pair of esteemed scientists.

Your birthday girl found the recipe anyway and giggled about it for weeks.

* * *

6 DAYS BEFORE THE BIRTHDAY OF CRISTABEL OCT

Alfred was considered reliable counsel for many things. The art of alcohol was one: he had learned to spice ale to an impeccable flavor profile, perfected his brewing process, and even invented a way to accelerate fermentation. You found this a rather pitiable hobby for a swordsman, but perhaps his interests might serve you just this once.

“Cristabel doesn’t even drink.” 

“ _Well_ , everyone else does. Concoct something for the rest of us sinners, Sir Quinque. I am outright begging.”

Alfred flinched. He had taken you way too seriously, as he often did.

“The Emperor does not believe in sin.”

“And I do not believe in useless conversations! Good luck and goodbye!”

He reached out a hand to touch your shoulder. You rounded on him and hissed in reflex.

“I love her, Mercymorn. I would do anything for her.” You softened inexplicably.

“Then make some Cris-mas punch, I don’t know.” Your nose was upturned, but Alfred’s eyes were earnest.

He did as you asked, and labeled the ale as such:

> ALFRED QUINQUE, CAVALIER OF THE GREAT RESURRECTION,  
>  CO-FOUNDER OF THE COURT OF KONIORTOS
> 
> PRESENTS
> 
> THE KEG OF KONIORTOS
> 
> A SEASONAL BREW IN HONOUR OF CRISTABEL OCT,  
>  WHO EMBODIES THE HEART OF THE EMPEROR  
>  MORE TRULY THAN I EVER COULD.

Augustine imbibed the entire batch of his brother's ale before the dawn of Cris-mas Day. You could have killed him for it.

Cristabel _loved_ the punch.

* * *

5 DAYS BEFORE THE BIRTHDAY OF CRISTABEL OCT

You had assigned Anastasia the task of composing Cris-mas hymns, and you learned that she could make music as sonorous as her beauty. Music was one of the only things that could pacify you, and your wintry heart might have grown three sizes that day.

> **_Mercy, did you know, that your ca-va-lier, might one day be a Lyctor?  
>  Mercy, did you know, that your Cris-ta-bel, will always be the victor?  
>  Did you know, that your gallant girl has not a feature flawed?  
>  When you kiss your darling Cristabel, you kiss the face of God._ **

As she finished her song, you looked to your cavalier for permission—a deliberate, enthusiastic nod—and then you kissed Anastasia on the lips. She was fiery against your mouth; you hadn’t expected that. She pulled you down into a firm and wanting embrace and you did not even _Hrm!!_ about it.

You learned that night that the Ninth could outlast you, after all.

As you slept, Anastasia curled into you and Cristabel sprawled behind you both in ceaseless protection. Novenary stood watch as the three of you dreamt of handbells and heavenly song.

_BLA BLANG, BLA BLANG, BLA BLANG._

When that alarm clock jolted you awake, you swore never to sleep in Anastasia’s chambers again.

You did not let her share this hymn in public, but you sought her reprise— _often_ —in the privacy of your own room.

* * *

4 DAYS BEFORE THE BIRTHDAY OF CRISTABEL OCT

Ulysses made himself singularly dedicated to the project you’d given him, which was illuminating the exterior of Canaan House with no less than twenty-five thousand twinkly lights. It took him _days_ to affix these, much longer than you had expected for what you insisted was a simple task. From your rooms one evening, you heard his triumph:

“Everybody, come out quick, look at the lights! Ha haaaaaaaaa!!!”

You were nearly blinded by the radiant blues and whites suddenly flooding your room. You heard a horrible _splash,_ then: the great Ulysses had slid off the roof and into the sea. Titania dove nearly a hundred meters to fish him out. She stripped him down there on the docks, shedding him of his salt-laden bathrobe and scolding him for his inelegance. As his gasps turned to laughter, and then devolved to _moans_ , you shuttered your window.

Titania, for her part, had every manner of flying fauna brought to Canaan House. Twenty-two turtle doves and twelve partridges fluttered and cooed about in those days before Cris-mas. Though you complained about their din and droppings, your cavalier was positively enchanted to have them around.

As it turned out, Ulysses was not the greatest electrician on the First. Unfortunately, he had been the only one to choose from. One night all thirty-four of Titania’s birds sat themselves along a single strand of lights, and as he plugged them in, an intense shock went through the whole of Canaan. It permanently fizzled the entire light show in an instant – and every last one of the critters, too.

* * *

3 DAYS BEFORE THE BIRTHDAY OF CRISTABEL OCT

The Knight of Rhodes herself knocked on your door one day, curt and courteous as she was, to proffer you a note.

The calligraphy alone—very nearly—tempted a smile to your lips.

> Dearest Mercy,
> 
> I am _beaming_ that you sought my help! 
> 
> The greenhouses have been whimsical this winter! Oh, I never want to see them wither. I want them in bloom forever as in a frieze, but no, not quite; because I want to watch the branches sway eternal the way a canvas never could. Will they, here on the First? You should be so proud! I’m adapting, you see: you have all made it so easy + one day I shall thank you properly for your hospitality.
> 
> Loveday has been a terrific buttress as always, she indulges my every craze even when I wish she would not. She hovers while I knit these laurels as if a single wayward thorn might leave me exsanguinated, and I chide her for it, but I do love her so, my knight carved out of marble. She treats me as though I am the only woman she has ever seen. Does that make a smidgin of sense? I hardly think so!
> 
> Her birthday comes along next, in mid-February, you know. Don’t you dare tell her, but do you think the Emperor will approve if I call it “Love-Day?” Is that too silly? I can see it all now... cerise-pink ribbons to match her hair, dripping painted hearts adorning the halls, ornate cards and roses for each one of us. She will hate every hour of it, and I simply cannot _wait_.
> 
> Oh, I should keep these fancies to myself. You asked for an update, not a poem, and I so hate to offend a grinch like you.  
>  Be well, Mercy! At the very least be better than me!
> 
> Cyth

Not a word of this was helpful to you, so you decided to investigate their methods yourself. You were always governing over Cytherea like that.

You caught the Seventh in a greenhouse later that day– _caught_ in the truest sense of the word. Their pruning tools and trimmings were strewn across a bench, looking as though they hadn’t been touched in hours. Loveday had her adept braced high against a dithering tree, its trunk as delicate as Cytherea herself, and that princely face was buried between trembling, translucent thighs.

You let them be. You could never bring yourself to interrupt Cytherea's miraculous laugh, no matter how it incensed you.

The wreaths and mistletoe greyed and wilted just as soon as they were hung. Cristabel found them very endearing while they lasted, and you even kissed her beneath them a time or three.

* * *

2 DAYS BEFORE THE BIRTHDAY OF CRISTABEL OCT

A skeleton wearing a very silly red-and-white hat delivered you the following note:

> mercy
> 
> you asked us to make cris-mas 'stockings' which i understand are not garments but meant to contain tiny treats?  
>  ok.....
> 
> i suppose you find our customary present too tacky for the official holiday  
>  well they were already completed in advance so expect them in short time
> 
> (in my portrait i am praying and my endowments are tastefully concealed behind a gift box that is medium-large, erring on the side of large  
>  valancy also had one done in which she and cris collaborated for the pose  
>  if there is anyone else my muse should fall to her knees in front of, i am glad it is the virtuous cristabel oct)
> 
> we have been working tirelessly on your commission however i do have a suggestion  
>  would it not be more jolly if aside from names they each had embroidered pictures  
>  for example a.l’s might have an image of krampus (please specifically clear that with e.j.g. so i don’t have to)
> 
> let me know what you think. good tidings for cris-mas

Several other revenants appeared in your quarters minutes later to bring you the cited paintings. Cristabel looked quite beautiful in the one, you abashedly admitted. She and Valancy had always made a pleasant pair.

You declined Cyrus’ _very_ creative idea, but he sabotaged you and made his additions anyway. The sheer, silvery stocking that Valancy hung for you did not even have your name on it: just a heaping lump of coal stuffed into the foot. 

* * *

1 DAY BEFORE THE BIRTHDAY OF CRISTABEL OCT

You had instructed Gideon and Pyrrha to make enough Cris-mas stew to feed an army. Unsurprisingly, the pair had chosen to take you very literally, and it also _tasted_ like army. The soup was steeped in a basin they claimed was too large to transport to the kitchens or dining area, and so you received a very concise invitation to the Seconds’ quarters.

> SOUP’S UP.
> 
> G. & P.

The door of their laboratory was propped open that night, and you found that Pyrrha had turned her training floor into a seating area – numerous comfortable chairs, sofas, and barstools pulled up to laminate benches where a buffet of hearty, horrible Cris-mas strew was served. Gideon, wearing his chef's apron, remained as reserved as ever, but you saw the twitch of his smile every time someone brought a spoonful of soup to their lips.

Pyrrha, reclined in her favorite armchair, made a hobby of antagonizing you. There was a strap-on sat precariously on the nightstand, and she desperately wanted you to acknowledge what she kept referring to as her most effective ‘Construct’ yet. Other partygoers—your cavalier included—took turns sitting on her lap and making Cris-mas wishes.

Awkwardness aside, there was a distinctive fellowship in that room that even you could not deny. During those jovial, ruminative hours, not a soul complained about the flavor (which you found pitiable) or the consistency (which you thought abominable) of this Twain-Dve delicacy. A.L., in fact, kept complimenting the soup, which was how you began to suspect that something was dreadfully off about her.

* * *

T’was the night before Cris-mas,

and across the universe,

Not a planet was stirring –

not even the First.

* * *

DECEMBER 19, THE ???th BIRTHDAY OF CRISTABEL OCT

We stayed up late into the eve, with our brothers and sisters and our King Undying. I was swarmed with well-wishers, disciples who wanted to kiss me and rejoice in the advent of my rebirth. They kept trying to apologize for all the ways they had fallen short. You tried not to be crabby about all the imperfections, and I reminded them that they —that _you_ — had done everything possible, and that had always been enough for me.

I delighted in it—I always thrived at a party—but truthfully, May, that night I only wanted to be with you. We met eyes across the room as we mingled, I imparted my cheer to assuage your disdain and I made sure that you kept every wrinkle in your nose ironed out. It was my birthday, and I wouldn’t have you being a killjoy. (Forgive me that joke, dear.)

The truth was that I never sought the festivities, nor the recognition; I never asked you, nor our siblings, and certainly I never would have asked _God_ to celebrate me.

 _Every_ day was Cris-mas when you were with me. You didn’t believe me when I told you that kind of thing. You always felt you could do more, that you could prove yourself worthy of his love and of mine. None of it had been necessary to begin with. I was celestially content in your arms on that day as I was any other.

“Happy birthday, Cristabel Oct,” you said when we’d finally escaped the revelry, your fingers in my hair. On any other day, it was me who fussed with your braids. But that night, you untied my tresses and you untangled each ribbon from my curls as though I was the only gift you’d ever wanted. I felt your fingertips against my scalp and I was sure that although God was the one who gave me life, you were the one who kept me breathing.

I don’t mean to make you unhappy, in saying that. I died as I lived: with delight. I have always wanted you to remember me with the smile I bore on that final day, to recall me through the rose-tinted irises that I so willingly yielded to you. I have always hoped that when you remembered my hands you would remember how I once worked them inside you, and how I renounced them to you that we might continue God’s endeavors together.

That night, we were exhausted. The week had been long—you had all done so _much_ for me, my goodness—and neither of us had much energy left to expend. I could always tell when you made the slightest twist to my synapses, and in those early hours of the morning, you made no attempt. You wanted to show me that even without God’s blessings, you were always beholden to please me. You worked your fingers inside of me, and I faltered around them again and again until there was only one word left on my lips.

“ _Mercymorn._ ” I hummed your name with my forehead pressed to yours, our flesh as close as I thought it would ever be. You wicked the sweat from your brow—you could not stand even your own salt, bless you—and you asked me to repeat myself. I did.

Later you would try to forget that name, and I understand why. You began to feel as though you were something apart, something unworthy of appellation. Even still, you felt a sting in your chest with every ironic invocation of our sainthood; you sensed the derision in every _Joy_ that slid from Augustine’s lips.

But to me, and only to me – you were still Mercymorn Oktaplasia, and I loved you for every moment of your miserable existence.

Peace be with you, as it is with me.

**Author's Note:**

> Oktaplasia = Greek for eightfold. Thanks Izzy!
> 
> (Cassy has, at this point in time, never seen a RB, and she just likes bad metaphors. Points if you know the uA fic I'm referencing w/ her recipe. I'm sorry I didn't write any sexytimes for Alfred. Please hop aboard the Mercy/Anastasia train with me, it's so good. Sorry about Ulys./Tit., I really drew a blank, but blue explosions and deaths of the innocent seemed appropriate. I realize Cytherea probably knew what was going on as soon as she got to Canaan, BUT I wanted this fic to be happy, and I wanted Loveday to have pink Utena hair. G1deon deserved a good experience with soup; also, his apron has a ladle on it and it says "It ain't gonna Lich itself." I'm deeply sorry for heart crimes at the end, honestly.)
> 
> Thanks to my beta readers Izzy & Rachel, and everyone else I thrust silly WIP-snips upon!


End file.
